Rose Tinted
by Lixxie1164
Summary: RHr We know JKR has fated Ron and Hermione to be together, but do they know? Beginning at their wedding, the guests are horrible, the groom might be wrong, and why is everything pink?


Rose Tinted

It was then that she knew she had made a mistake. Standing at the altar opposite her bridegroom and all she could think of was that she wasn't overly fond of pink flowers. She had expected to feel more; she thought she would be trying to hold back the tears, or her nerves at the very least.

But no. Her emotions were far too calm as she looked up and caught another eyeful of pink flowers. Hermione had to smother a giggle at the inappropriate nature of her thoughts. She heard her groom stumble slightly as he declared his vows. At last it was her turn. Hermione's eyes flicked down from his face to his lapel and vowed, 'I do,' to the pink carnation resting there.

Hermione spent the rest of the service hoping that her reaction to marriage was really just a bizarre form of pre-wedding – well, during-wedding – jitters. By the time the registers, both Muggle and wizarding, were signed, she had rationalised her fears away as her mind focusing on something inane to keep herself calm. She hadn't yet managed to find an excuse for the slight feeling of revulsion she felt at signing her married name for the first time, but she felt confident that she would come up with something soon.

As they took their first walk as man and wife back down the aisle, she whispered, 'Who chose the flowers?'

Carefully arranging her skirts and getting into the car, Hermione drew in a shaky breath and looked at Ron. She was surprised to find herself feeling more nervous at being alone in the car with him than she had back at the altar. Although you could hardly call them alone when they were accompanied by a chauffeur, several dozen more pink carnations and her enormous dress. Ron was looking a bit peaky himself, and she was relieved to feel a familiar surge of affection. The short journey to the reception passed in a comfortable silence while Hermione minutely examined her thoughts, and Ron minutely examined her no longer off-limit breasts.

The reception was held in the upstairs function room of a local pub, the Malt Shovel. There were several long tables set up down the far end of the room for the sit down dinner. The area around the bar had a number of small, round tables, most of which were already occupied by guests getting in early drinks as they waited for the bride and groom to appear.

A few minutes later, Harry Potter, best man and Master of Ceremonies, announced the arrival of the newlyweds, 'Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr and Mrs Weasley.'

Ron and Hermione walked in, arm in arm. Both were looking pale and uncomfortable. Hermione steeled herself for the slow torture about to unfold, otherwise known as the reception line. The wedding party lined up, Ron and Hermione, the elder Mr and Mrs Weasley, Mr and Mrs Granger, Harry as best man, Ginny and Hermione's young cousins, Laura and Elizabeth as bridesmaids.

The guests slowly inched along, uttering the well clichéd, 'You must be so proud.' as they kissed and handshook their way back to their drinks. Hermione decided to ignore some of the whispered comments shared between Ron's relatives.

'You can't tell she's Muggle-born by looking at her, can you?'

'I hear she knows her way around a wand even though she isn't really one of us.'

'Well it is hard to find a reasonable pure-blooded witch these days. At the end of the day, any half-decent witch will do for breeding stock.'

Hermione gritted her teeth and helped to pass the time by working out exactly how many seconds stood between her and the nearest bottle of red wine. She allowed her eyes to wander around the room as another of Ron's relatives told her breasts that they looked radiant. Well, she supposed that he might have meant her in general. A sigh escaped her lips as she took in the sickly pink sugar roses decorating the cake in the corner.

A bloody fraud, that's what she was. Her bosom was heaving thanks to fifty quid's worth of boned corset. Her hair was flattened to within an inch of its life by a gallon or two of sleekeazy's help. She was tall and lean, walking slowly and elegantly, though that was mostly because she couldn't move any faster in her ridiculously high heels. Her face didn't look like her own either, her complexion was flawless, at least the trowel-full of slap on top of her skin was flawless, she couldn't see her actual skin. Even her bridal blush was painted on.

In a way she felt quite sorry for Ron. He got to marry a beautiful woman in a beautiful, though rather pink, ceremony – then had to wake up in the morning next to plain old Hermione. Or worse, Hermione covered in splodgy makeup with her hair half flat, half hedge-like, with blisters on her feet and thoroughly squashed breasts. And that was without counting Ron getting his hands on them.

'First things first,' thought Hermione, carefully side-stepping around further thoughts of the wedding night, 'Get through the reception.'

The last of the guests finally shuffled away from the wedding party. Ginny took Hermione's elbow and steered her off to the top table, where a bottle of wine was already waiting. 'Come on, let's get pissed.' She poured a couple of very generous glasses and handed one to Hermione. 'I'm really sorry about my family. You know we don't all see you that way, don't you?'

'Yeah, I suppose there are quite a few people who have strong opinions on a Muggle-born marrying into an old pure-blooded family.'

'As long as you know that we love you and your family and don't care what is or isn't part of your heritage. I love having you as a sister.'

'Thanks, Ginny. I'm sorry about my family too. There was no need for my cousin Julie to suggest adoption as a viable alternative to having ginger children.'


End file.
